


Catch and Release

by witch_brew



Category: Boyfriend to Death (Visual Novel)
Genre: Branding, Death, Depression, Forced Watersports, Gen, Gore, Guro, Kidnapping, Knives, Like, Other, Pee, Piss, Reader Has Issues, Reader dies, Reader-Insert, Really dark, Self Harm, Torture, Violence, Watersports, dont read if youre easily triggered or squeamish, its just really bad, noncon, reader has nightmares, really - Freeform, there are so many bad things here, this story is really fucking dark, trigger warning, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:09:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8553274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witch_brew/pseuds/witch_brew
Summary: You think you knew what you wanted. Strade knew better. Is this what you wanted? Is it?





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story is really fucked up. I don't really know where it came from but here you go. If you want more of this sort of thing let me know?
> 
> Warning: This story explores some very, very dark themes.

Your nails are clipped short so you don't tear your skin when you wake up, screaming and clawing, fighting to get away from no one but yourself.

You don't wash your hair enough. You don't brush it much either. It's constantly a mess, long enough to hide your tired eyes when you slump, which you often do.

You think you're hideous. 

You drink. To remember. To forget. To drink. You don't want to be anything. The world keeps going around you while you sink deeper and deeper into nothing, drowning in it. You can't scream. Can't even speak. If you do it will seep into your mouth and lungs. It will drown you.

And you don't want to be alive after that happens.

They say anyone can be beautiful.

Fucking liars.

You don/t see him, even with your ever present paranoia. Your distrust is a constant bitter taste in your mouth, like bile. 

He sees you.

He saw you the moment you walked into the bar, all wilted and withdrawn. He wonders how beautiful you'll be when you bloom and sing and scream.

People say you don't talk much. People say you're quiet. 

You are. You don't have anything to say.

He knows from the moment he lays eyes on you, just from one glance as he scans the bar with his laid back, friendly (predatory) grin. He knows he can change that. He can change all of it. 

This is how the game begins. 

–

You leave the bar after two drinks. It's always the same. You don't stay long enough for anyone to notice you.

At least. That's what you think. 

He follows you out, but you don't see that. You're already gone.

“How do you move so fast, little maus?”

–

That's how it starts. 

You're so quiet. So subdued. But he sees it. He sees the fight in you from the way your ruined fingers grip the bottle you drink from like they're trying to strangle it. 

You never pull out a phone. You never speak to anyone in the bar. There's never another person near you. 

You're alone. To others you probably look broken. But he knows what broken looks like. You aren't broken. Not yet.

He wants to watch it happen. He plans to make it happen. 

He's figured out your routine by now. After you're handed your second beer, he slips outside to wait. 

You don't notice him. You aren't as observant as you think you are.

Little mice can't hide forever you know. Eventually they'll be caught and they'll be eaten alive. 

But not tonight. Tonight he's watching. His basement isn't ready for you yet. The last one is still down there. Not much, but some of him. He needs to clean him off of the walls before he takes you.

(Sometimes it's worth the wait.)

He likes to make a good first impression. 

He watches you walk out of the bar.. You glance around, quick and skittish, before you dart down the street, turning sharply into an alleyway three buildings down. 

He follows. Carefully. 

You keep a near sprinting pace. Nervous little thing. You know you're weak. You know there are people out there who aren't. So you run. You are always running. 

You're quick, he'll give you that much. 

(He'll take the rest.)

He watches you slip into a run down little apartment complex. You fumble, nearly dropping your keys, but manage to catch them before they're anyway near the ground.

You vanish into the building, head upstairs to ignore the dishes in the sink in favor of rest.

You're always so tired. 

No amount of sleep fixes the bags beneath your eyes though. 

You'll never be beautiful.

(He disagrees.)

(He knows what's inside you. He can see the potential. He just has to rip it out, cut it out, tear it out with his teeth. So everyone can see.)

You fall asleep on your kitchen table. He goes home to prepare for your arrival. 

–

The next time is something different. Something happened. Your control slips.

You break a habit.

It was something. A phone call from home.

It went badly. 

You're completely alone. You have no one.

You're also four beers in, bloodshot eyes glaring holes into the table.

(You think you want this. You think you know yourself. You think you know what you want.)

(He knows you better than you ever will.)

When you leave, he slips up behind you. You're slower tonight. Your reflexes impaired by drink. 

There is no fight.

When you turn into the alley, he grabs you by the arm and squeezes hard enough to bruise before slinging you against the bricks of the building on your right. 

You don't scream. 

(Your hands scrape against the brick, skinning them, as you try to catch yourself. Try to push back.)

(He pushes you, gripping the back of your neck, until your face is pressed against the gritty alley wall.)

You don't scream. 

A small squeal, maybe, pained and frightened.

It makes him laugh.

He drags you to his car. He parked it close.

You struggle, but you're weak. You've always been too weak. 

And look where it's lead you.

There's no handle inside. He buckles you in. He looks excited. He's so close. He smells like rust and sweat and dirt. 

You don't cry yet. 

You stare up at him. Trembling and afraid. Frozen.

Useless.

He shuts the door. 

–

You don't cry until he drags you into his basement. He hears you speak for the first time.

“Please. No.”

It's quiet, barely there, like a ghost of a voice. Something that once was and then once was not.

He loves it. He can't wait to hear you screaming for his mercy.

(He has none.)

He tells you his name as he ties your wrists to a post. Strade.

He calls you buddy. He sounds so gentle and kind, a stark contrast to the way he handles you.

You would have never trusted him.

(He already knew that though.)

“Buddy,” he says, tilting your chin up so you have to meet his sickeningly sweet gaze.

“You aren't listening.”

You blink. Had he been speaking?

He shakes his head, laughing in a soothing way. Your body relaxes against your minds screaming advice. 

He hits you.

Open palm, right across the cheek. 

It turns your head sharply. You yelp loudly, like a kicked puppy. Strade lets out a pleased hum as he regards you.

You feel it swelling as you stare at the ground, shocked. Within the hour it will become a nasty bruise. It is the kindest thing he will do to you. 

“You have to pay attention. And speak when I ask you a question, little maus.” 

You slowly look up at him. He's in control. You're nothing here. Not that you were something out there. 

“I'm sorry, Strade.” You whisper, voice cracking with barely suppressed sobs. You'll learn soon, he like it better when you cry. 

“That's alright buddy!” Strade grins. You're nearly startled at how quickly his demeanor changed. 

In a flash he's gripping your chin, staring into your eyes. There's something sinister gleaming in the warm gold of his irises. Something evil and wrong and disgusting.

“You'll learn fast. Or die trying.”

He lets go, the friendly personality reappearing as if it never left. He pats your head. 

“Get some rest, Schatzi. We start tomorrow.” 

He leaves you then, in the dark, cold basement. It stinks like rust and death and you know that you're going to die down here. 

With those thoughts circling your mind, you eventually drift into a fitful sleep.

When you wake up, it's to the sound of your own screams. 

–

You sit up sharply, hands jerking against the ropes on your wrists hard enough to tear the skin. Your throat, always raw from your frequent night terrors, feels like it might be bleeding to.

You look around, trying to get your bearings. 

(When you're home, safe in bed, this is how you stop the screaming.)

(B u t y o u a r e n o t h o m e a n y m o r e.)

The second you see where you are, you scream harder. Your voice tears. You choke. There are footsteps on the stairs. Where are you? What's happening? Everythingisgoingto0fast. Youcan'tbreath. 

Youcan'tbreathe.

Youcan't-

The lights flick on, Strade appears in your line of sight. He's all you can see. You remember where you are and, somehow, your screaming stops.

He's shirtless. You must have woken him. His hair is messier than before as he stares down at you, the concern(?) already fading from his eyes, replaced by curiosity. He tilts his head like a dog.

“What's wrong, liebling?” He says, nice and slow. 

You're shaking, jerking at your ropes. 

“You need to untie me I have to be untied please please I can't I can't Strade Strade please I can't breathe like this.” 

He stares at you, shocked for a moment, before his face goes blank.

“Alright then.”

You'd be shocked if you weren't in a state of panic. Strade does as you so frantically plead, untying your wrists. 

You don't move away, hands darting straight for your own neck. You claw at the skin there uselessly. Your face, neck, chest. You claw and you gasp for air that won't come, hunching over on the too cold basement floor. 

You're mostly silent. Your nails are too short to draw blood, but they drag angry red lines into your flesh as you try to scratch the dream free from your skin. 

Strade steps back, watching you, lips twitching.

Cheeks flushed. 

By the time you come back to yourself you've covered all available skin in scratched. You pant weakly, slumping back against the pole, and stare up at your captor. 

“Nightmare?” He asks, sweetly.

“I... yes. Kind of.” You say. It takes a few tries to get your voice to work, and it's raw and hoarse when it finally does. 

He smiles again. So friendly. So easygoing. 

“That's fine buddy, that's all well and good. Gotta tie you back up now though. Then we can go ahead and get started, since you seem to be awake now.” 

You flinch and press back against your post. He doesn't really seem to care. He wrenches your arms back behind you, retying the rope. It rubs against the gouges you made in your wrists when you woke.

You're pretty sure he meant for it to.

(He definitely meant for it to.)

He moves back to your front, crouching and taking in your disheveled appearance. Your face is flushed from the struggle when you woke, covered in fading scratches. Your hair is a wreck. Face tear streaked.

You think you look hideous. 

He disagrees. 

He walks over to a counter. There's some shuffling, some scraping, and then he turns to face you again.

He has a knife. 

You flinch back, whimpering. 

“Don't worry buddy, I'm not gonna kill you today. Just need to get your clothes out of the way, and you look to tired to do it yourself.”

He crouches in front of you once more, cutting your shirt away. The blade nicks your skin several times, making you gasp and whine. He sets the knife down to tug your pants off of your hips. You don't struggle. You don't think struggling would be a good idea right now.

He doesn't touch your underwear, at least. 

(That's for later.)

Strade regards you silently for a moment, smiling, before he picks up the knife. You whimper quietly, sucking in your gut as the blade draws close to the skin. 

He doesn't stop. 

The blade is drawn slowly across your stomach, just above your belly button. You cry out, sharp and clear. It's not that deep, but blood leaks down, wetting your underwear and thighs. 

“Pretty thing. You have such lovely screams. Let's see what it takes to hear them again, yeah?”

He jams the knife into your thigh, deep enough to scratch the bone. 

You scream. 

It pierces the silent room, and Strade inhales through his nose, sharply. His grin shifts, just a bit, and he licks his teeth. 

“Good. Scream more for me, little maus.”

He grips your ankle and drags the blade sharply down, carving into your thigh, and your shrieks echo through the basement, your freed leg kicking as your wrists jerk against the rope, digging fresh gouges into them. 

He pulls the knife out, releasing more of your blood. 

It's so dark. Such a beautiful shade of red. 

It's the only thing about yourself you find beautiful. 

Strade grips your chin when your last scream dies, he looks into your eyes. 

“I think we'll try something else, little maus.” He says. 

He looks hungry.

Strade rises, walking away from you again. When he returns, he has with him a large battery and a pair of jumper cables. You struggle this time, panicked and afraid. You don't want this. You don't want to die. You were wrong. 

He attaches the jumper cables to your fingers. It squeezes tight, and you whine at the pain. He grins. 

“So sensitive little one. This is going to hurt.”

He does something. And suddenly you're paralyzed with pain, body completely tense, jerking towards and away from the pain at the same time, stuck in an agonizing limbo.

You scream again. And again.

You can't stop screaming. 

The pain finally stops, and you go limp against the pole, gasping for air. Strade... is just... staring. 

He moves fast, hoisting your hips up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He shifts a bit. Through the ringing in your ears you hear his fly unzip. He jerks your underwear down just enough for his cock to press into you. 

You aren't prepared, you feel your hole tear as he pushes in.

His pace is brutal and uneven as he fucks you against the pole. The wood digs into your bare back. 

He stares into your face, his own heavily flushed with lust as he rams into your nearly limp body. 

Each thrust causes your head to hit the post you're tied to. He keeps going, you sob and jerk against your restraints, legs kicking weakly, toes curling. 

He's grunting and chuckling. His thrusts quickly grow sloppy and more aggressive. Finally he grips your hips harder, grinding his hips hard against your ass as he cums deep inside of you. 

He pulls out after a moment, staring at your wrecked form for a long moment. 

“I think you might last, liebling.” He murmurs. “How about we get you fixed up, hm?”

You stare up at him, dizzy and weak and hurt, and he ruffles your hair before stepping away and returning with needle and thread. He dumps some alcohol on your thigh, causing you to hiss and wince. He stitches you up quickly, ignoring your pathetic whines at the pain, and then he stands. 

“I'll let you rest for a while. I need to pick up some more supplies.” 

And then you're alone again. You slump against the post, head hung low, and weep.

You don't want this.

You never wanted this.

But there's no turning back.

You're a mouse, and Strade? Strade is a fucking lion. 

–

You don't go back to sleep that night. Day? You can't tell how long you've been down there. You wonder if anyone knows you're gone. It's unlikely.

No one will know until you don't pay the rent on your apartment. In a month. 

Strade returns, eventually. He has several things with him, all in a bag. 

He kneels in front of you, tilting your chin up. You stare at him, feeling your pulse begin to speed at the thought of what is to come. 

(You'd think happy thoughts, but you haven't had any in a very long time.)

Strade takes something from the bag and you let out one weak sob. 

It's a branding iron. 

The end, so far as you can tell, is shaped like an S. He smiles at you, pulling a lighter from his pocket, and begins to heat the iron.

“See, buddy, I like you. You're pretty good at this. You're so loud. I just can't help myself.”

He glances down at the flame, smile widening slightly. 

You're shaking in fear. 

“So we're gonna have some more fun today, and if you do well, I might keep you.”

You shake. You aren't sure what “doing well” entails. 

You aren't sure you want him to keep you. 

He removes the flame suddenly and presses the searing hot brand against the side of your neck.

You let out an ear piercing screech, thrashing against the ropes, fighting him. He grips you by your forehead, pressing your skull against the post you're tied to to keep you still. 

Your bladder lets go. 

Strade finally removes the brand, glancing down at the puddle you made on the floor before looking up at you.

His smile is sickening. Cruel. 

He cuts the rope that holds you in place, not even giving you a moment to breathe before he's shoving your face into the floor. His knee digs into your back and you sob. 

“Clean it, maus.” He hisses into your hair. 

You sob harder. Some of your own urine finds it's way into your mouth and you gag. You can't do it. You can't obey him. 

Strade growls, shifting so he's straddling your lower back, weight crushing you into the floor. You hear the scrape of his knife as he draws it and presses it against your back. 

“Fine.” He says. “We'll try something different then, since you can't even do that for me.”

He cuts. 

You cry out, sob, struggle weakly and pointlessly. 

You don't realize he's carving letters until he starts the second one. 

“There we go. Now everyone can tell what you are, little maus.” He murmurs into your ear when he's done. He's hard against you.

He doesn't fuck you this time. Instead he rolls you onto your back. 

You stare up at him. He smiles down at your horrified, pained face. 

You feel your piss against the new wounds on your back, burning brilliantly. 

Something inside of you begins to break. 

He's torn you apart on the outside, it makes sense that the same has been happening inside. 

Strade says nothing to you now. He just cuts and cuts and carves the same word into your skin again and again. 

Eventually, you stop screaming. 

When he stops cutting, you open your eyes, staring up at him, tired and weak and finally, finally broken.

(You didn't know pain before. You didn't know anything.)

Strade stands, dragging you by your hair over to a small, clean area in the basement. He opens a laptop, hits a few keys. 

A window pops up, and you can see yourself in it. He's filming you. You don't see his face on screen. 

He steps away for a minute, and when he returns he's hidden his face. You can still see his eyes though. Those eyes are all you need anymore. 

(This isn't right. Somethings gone terribly wrong here.)

“What do you see, liebling?” Strade whispers into your ear. His voice now is just for you. 

(This. Is. Not. Right.)

You stare into the camera, stare at yourself, and you see it now. In the words carved all over your body. In the brand on your neck. The bruises, the cuts, you can see it now. 

(Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. This is all wrong. This is not you.)

You can see it. 

“I'm beautiful.” You whisper. 

(You don't want to die. You don't want to. You don't-)

Strade is smiling, you can tell. 

You feel the touch of cold steel against your neck.

You don't mind. 

“You were a lot of fun to break, little maus.” He breathes. 

(No one is coming to save you.)

He drags the blade across your throat. You feel pain. You feel the warmth pouring down your front. 

You smile for the camera. 

(This wasn't supposed to happen to you.)

Soon you feel nothing at all.


End file.
